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Description
     Out in the back alleys of some city, a greasy building stood. A passing person, if asked, would probably say, "What building?" It had a quality of hiddenness that had nothing to do with the overall small size of the structure. As if to accent this illusion, it was flanked on either side by two much larger buildings.
     Blood also leaked from between the bricks, staining the mortar and pooling where the walls met the concrete ground. But this was only an illusion someone thought they saw.
     Above the stained white door was a sign. It used to illuminate at night, but had fallen into disrepair. In red letters, it proclaimed, "BUTCHER". There were no windows.The neon "OPEN" sign was not illuminated, although it was three o'clock in the afternoon, just when people would be considering a main dish to purchase for dinner.
     Inside, the condition of the place did not improve. It had all the necessary accoutrements a butcher shop should have; a white counter, riddled with scoring from a cleaver, a reel with numbers for serving the hungry masses quickly and fairly, and an ordering menu that hung above the workspace behind the counter that listed what meats were available. But nothing was well kept, everything had a greasy, stained quality, even if it was spotless. Flies buzzed incessantly in the corners, the fluorecent lights flickered constantly. Blood and gristle stagnated on the work counter. Scores of flies perched there, feasting.
     Mant people of this city knew the shop. They knew that although the establishment was unsavory, the products that came out of it were exactly the opposite. The steaks were always juicy and tender, the sausages were delectable, and the roasts always came out well, regardless of the cooking ability of the preparer. But the denizens of the burg would sometimes wonder why the proprietor would close his shop, sometimes for days at a time, in the middle of business hours. Some had gone so far as to ask the butcher why this behavior persisted. He would always give a big grin and say, "Everyone needs a break, right?"
     The public accepted it. They trusted him. Why would such a nice man lie?
     One such day, when the neon "OPEN" sign was not illuminated, if one went through the "Employees Only" door behind the counter, one would discover the truth.
     Through that door, there was a staircase, leading downward. At the end of the stairs, there was a junction, a choice. Two doors, one on the right, one on the left.
     The door on the right was lit from above by a bare bulb with a pull chain. Through that door was more typical butchering equipment; freezers, meat lockers, work benches, supplies, storage, and so on.
     Through the left lay the truth.
     Screams came from that door, dark and stained.
     There were never any witnesses to the Butcher's clandestine activities, but if there ever were any, the sight they would see would prevent he or she from telling anybody about it.
     The room inside was a typical basment room, brick-walled and dimly lit by another bare bulb in the ceiling. To the left there was a bench with various tools; calipers, scalpels, knives, cleavers, tourniquets. The wooden bech they layed on was stained with a deep-red fluid.
     The screams ceased. A quivering voice, female, said, "What are you doing with that!?"
     There was the sound of metal gliding through flesh.
      Shing!
     The woman began screaming once more.
     On the far wall, attached to the bricks, was a pair of fasteners for shackles. There was a woman in the shackles.
     She was pretty, with long red hair and a face that would not be out of place on a makeup advertisement. She had a lithe form, which was easily visible. She was completely naked.
     Scores of gashes raked her body, freely bleeding. Blood dripped, pooling on the concrete floor underneath her.
     Before her was the Butcher. He was a portly man of middle age, with a mop of mousy brown hair and puffy cheeks. His nose was bulbous, and shared the same red complexion as most of the rest of his face. Although his belly was prevalent, his forearms were bulging with muscle, emphasized by the short-sleeve shirt and white apron he wore. He had a knife in one hand, with a long, wicked blade. It was dirty, with many dark stains. It dripped.
     He said in his deep, fatherly voice, "Clara. You know, your mother wouldn't be proud of you. Always hanging around street corners at night, selling yourself to any man willing to pay. Your mother would be disgusted. Ashamed. Disheartened." HE walked over to the bench and selected a scalpel from the many instruments. This wasn't an ordinary surgeon's scalpel. It had a very long, curved blade, with an extremely fine point on the end.
     He walked back over to the shackled Clara. "In fact, I don't even think she'd miss you if you happened to go missing, if she found out about your little nighttime escapades. I wonder if she'd notice if she tasted you. As a steak."
     Clara begged, "No, no, please, I'll do anything you want, don't-"
     He plunged the scalpel deep into her soft, pale belly and dragged it in a line all the way across, making a deep horizontal incision. Clara screamed, and screamed ever louder as her entrails splattered onto the concrete floor. The Butcher, pleased at his act of disembowelment, began to laugh under Clara's shrieking. He laughed manically, uproariously, as if he had just heard the best joke of his life.
     Ordinarily, Clara's screams would be heard by someone. Anyone on the outside. But her peals of terror and anguish did not penetrate to the street above. Once something entered the Butcher's shop, it never left. Not even screams.

Description
     Out in the back alleys of some city, a greasy building stood. A passing person, if asked, would probably say, "What building?" It had a quality of hiddenness that had nothing to do with the overall small size of the structure. As if to accent this illusion, it was flanked on either side by two much larger buildings.
     Blood also leaked from between the bricks, staining the mortar and pooling where the walls met the concrete ground. But this was only an illusion someone thought they saw.
     Above the stained white door was a sign. It used to illuminate at night, but had fallen into disrepair. In red letters, it proclaimed, "BUTCHER". There were no windows.The neon "OPEN" sign was not illuminated, although it was three o'clock in the afternoon, just when people would be considering a main dish to purchase for dinner.
     Inside, the condition of the place did not improve. It had all the necessary accoutrements a butcher shop should have; a white counter, riddled with scoring from a cleaver, a reel with numbers for serving the hungry masses quickly and fairly, and an ordering menu that hung above the workspace behind the counter that listed what meats were available. But nothing was well kept, everything had a greasy, stained quality, even if it was spotless. Flies buzzed incessantly in the corners, the fluorecent lights flickered constantly. Blood and gristle stagnated on the work counter. Scores of flies perched there, feasting.
     Mant people of this city knew the shop. They knew that although the establishment was unsavory, the products that came out of it were exactly the opposite. The steaks were always juicy and tender, the sausages were delectable, and the roasts always came out well, regardless of the cooking ability of the preparer. But the denizens of the burg would sometimes wonder why the proprietor would close his shop, sometimes for days at a time, in the middle of business hours. Some had gone so far as to ask the butcher why this behavior persisted. He would always give a big grin and say, "Everyone needs a break, right?"
     The public accepted it. They trusted him. Why would such a nice man lie?
     One such day, when the neon "OPEN" sign was not illuminated, if one went through the "Employees Only" door behind the counter, one would discover the truth.
     Through that door, there was a staircase, leading downward. At the end of the stairs, there was a junction, a choice. Two doors, one on the right, one on the left.
     The door on the right was lit from above by a bare bulb with a pull chain. Through that door was more typical butchering equipment; freezers, meat lockers, work benches, supplies, storage, and so on.
     Through the left lay the truth.
     Screams came from that door, dark and stained.
     There were never any witnesses to the Butcher's clandestine activities, but if there ever were any, the sight they would see would prevent he or she from telling anybody about it.
     The room inside was a typical basment room, brick-walled and dimly lit by another bare bulb in the ceiling. To the left there was a bench with various tools; calipers, scalpels, knives, cleavers, tourniquets. The wooden bech they layed on was stained with a deep-red fluid.
     The screams ceased. A quivering voice, female, said, "What are you doing with that!?"
     There was the sound of metal gliding through flesh.
      Shing!
     The woman began screaming once more.
     On the far wall, attached to the bricks, was a pair of fasteners for shackles. There was a woman in the shackles.
     She was pretty, with long red hair and a face that would not be out of place on a makeup advertisement. She had a lithe form, which was easily visible. She was completely naked.
     Scores of gashes raked her body, freely bleeding. Blood dripped, pooling on the concrete floor underneath her.
     Before her was the Butcher. He was a portly man of middle age, with a mop of mousy brown hair and puffy cheeks. His nose was bulbous, and shared the same red complexion as most of the rest of his face. Although his belly was prevalent, his forearms were bulging with muscle, emphasized by the short-sleeve shirt and white apron he wore. He had a knife in one hand, with a long, wicked blade. It was dirty, with many dark stains. It dripped.
     He said in his deep, fatherly voice, "Clara. You know, your mother wouldn't be proud of you. Always hanging around street corners at night, selling yourself to any man willing to pay. Your mother would be disgusted. Ashamed. Disheartened." HE walked over to the bench and selected a scalpel from the many instruments. This wasn't an ordinary surgeon's scalpel. It had a very long, curved blade, with an extremely fine point on the end.
     He walked back over to the shackled Clara. "In fact, I don't even think she'd miss you if you happened to go missing, if she found out about your little nighttime escapades. I wonder if she'd notice if she tasted you. As a steak."
     Clara begged, "No, no, please, I'll do anything you want, don't-"
     He plunged the scalpel deep into her soft, pale belly and dragged it in a line all the way across, making a deep horizontal incision. Clara screamed, and screamed ever louder as her entrails splattered onto the concrete floor. The Butcher, pleased at his act of disembowelment, began to laugh under Clara's shrieking. He laughed manically, uproariously, as if he had just heard the best joke of his life.
     Ordinarily, Clara's screams would be heard by someone. Anyone on the outside. But her peals of terror and anguish did not penetrate to the street above. Once something entered the Butcher's shop, it never left. Not even screams.